


The Opening

by itstonedme



Series: Beguilement Verse [4]
Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-10-02
Updated: 2009-10-02
Packaged: 2017-11-15 00:05:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/520928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itstonedme/pseuds/itstonedme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Modern day AU.  Nearly two years have passed since Orlando first met Elijah, a high-priced escort, on a business trip to Amsterdam, where they spent one memorable night together.  They have not seen each other since.  Part 4 in the Beguilement universe.  First posted on LJ in October 2009 <a href="http://itstonedme.livejournal.com/26936.html?#cutid1">here</a> with reader comments.</p>
<p>Disclaimer: A work of fiction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Opening

The catering staff are at full-bore, coolly shuttling between what will soon be the gallery's kitchen and the delivery lot in back where portable ovens in two converted trucks are baking, broiling and sautéing the evening's delectables. The countertops of the soon-to-be kitchen are lined in neat rows of silver trays bearing champagne flutes and hors d'oeuvres in various stages of assemblage. Hovering over them intently, a team of sharply dressed line staff fill and shape and arrange with meticulous care. All of this is taking place under the direction of a catering manager on the verge of spontaneous combustion. Her crispness behind emerald eyeglasses and hedgehogged red hair is even sharper than the 6-year-old cheddar being carved. She rifles through her order forms, calling out instructions in a staccato mix of Dutch and English. 

Amidst all of this energy, Dom has apparently seen the need to support one of the range uprights at the far end of a counter because that's where he's currently at while he chats up one of the caterers whose busily piping cream cheese into endive boats. Dom is suitably attired for the gallery's big opening tonight, which means he's in kohl and loafers. He's playing that game of faking little thefts to sample, which only flusters the target of his attentions, a cute young thing originally from Bruges but now living on his own in Amsterdam. The game, however, is not without enjoyment on both sides, and Dom has agreed to wait patiently until the cheese is dressed with fine red and black caviar, the cheaper Danish kind. 

Because, while Ian values impressions and appearances, he isn't beyond frugality when it's his money going down people's throats. And since the gallery is his, and the opening is his, and the bill for both of those assets are unavoidably his, the common lumpfish will get his patronage this evening. 

"What's the strangest thing you've ever known anyone to do with food?" Dom whispers suggestively, an eyebrow raised to a quotation mark. "You know, like, really _out_ there?" 

It's all he can do not to lick the blush that surges up the young caterer's neck. 

"Can I see you in my office, Dominic?" 

Ian has been swanning about the gallery for the past several hours, a coterie of flunkies in his wake who, despite being dispatched to run errands so that everything will be Just So for when the guests arrive, never seem to diminish in number. The stressful nature of these events is passing, however; Ian has just completed the press tour, and now freed of that obligation, he's in need of a brief respite. Hence Dom. 

"Do bring the libations," he adds, waving in the direction of the Moet & Chandon. 

By the time Dom slips through the office doorway, locking it quietly after himself, Ian has already reclined on the couch, fingers feverishly unfastening his trousers. "Oh hurry," he whines, gladhanding his prick as if it might be scorching his knickers. 

"Hand, mouth or arse?" Dom offers, assessing the urgency. He takes a quick rinse of champagne that makes tears start in his eyes, hands Ian his glass while placing the other within easy reach, then fingers his belt buckle. 

Ian waves him off. "Just a little celebratory head, if you would be so kind. Oh!" he gasps. 

Dom's not one to waste time when the boss is wanting, and he's sunk to his knees and swallowed Ian whole, no mean feat given Ian's wholesome profile. He spits a few times to get things nicely lubricated, being mindful not to soil the silk-wool blend of Ian's trousers. 

"Arghh," Ian grimaces, rearranging his bottom and balls on the sofa seat so that Dom has better access. "Very nice, Dominic, just lovely." He pets Dom's prickly tufts, which earns him a spat-out cock and mild look of admonition. 

"Mind the tips," Dom says. "Cost me a blow job." 

"My, my, the places your mouth has been," Ian chuckles as Dom returns to his task. "If it weren't so pleasantly occupied, I'd ask you to tell me about it." He sips from his glass, then relaxes his head and shoulders against the back of the couch. 

The sound of wet suckling fills the room, overriding the distant sound of voices and chatter of cellphones. There is nothing like success to swell Ian's erection, nor the daily supplement of under-the-counter performance-enhancing vitamins procured in a memorable Brazilian taberna, nor the increasingly regular attentions of young Dominic. A few minutes pass before Ian checks his watch. 

"Oh, this won't do," he sighs. "Go to my desk and root through the bottom drawer. There should be a brown case in back." 

Dom sits back and flexes his jaw a few times before taking a sip from his glass and gargling. He gets to his feet. He needs to tidy the hard-on blooming in his trousers, making better room for it. There'll be no relief for it any time soon, this he knows; even the caterer will need a bit more courting before Dom can slip him back here. 

Dom retrieves the case and pops it open to reveal a curved dildo and supply of lube. "You wank at the office?" he asks in mild surprise, sliding the On switch to test the batteries. 

"Never mind," Ian dismisses. He's decided that it would be best if he removed his trousers entirely to avoid creases. "Let's get on with it." 

"You must have been truly frightful when you were twenty," Dom says, snagging a few tissues and lubing the thing. "You sure you wouldn't rather a fuck?" 

"Come on," Ian waves impatiently. "You sit, I'll kneel." 

They manoeuver around each other on the couch, Dom slipping the dildo into Ian so that it snugs his ass and perineum, and Ian slides back between his lips. "Fire it up," Ian croaks. 

Dom nearly chokes as soon as he's thrown the switch; the abruptness drives Ian forward a good few inches. 

"Ahhh, _much_ better," Ian coos. 

* 

When he catches up with him, Ian finds Elijah, not surprisingly, absorbed in thoughtful discourse with a bracelet of young women around a Giacometti sculpture, one kindly on loan from the Tate Modern especially for the gallery's opening. Elijah attracts women like flies to a fishmonger, and the present gathering are all young sophisticates who could parse the bronze bust's lines and angles until midnight and still not be any closer to anything except the loftiness of it all. But this type of pedantic flexing is standard fare at functions such as this, and Elijah is an expert at mixing within Ian's circle. 

All in all, Ian considers the attention that Elijah pays him the epitome of holistic harlotry. 

He positions himself across the room within Elijah's sight line and waits until he can catch a glance, then mouths "enough" with a crinkled smile. 

"Thank fucking God," Elijah exhales when he slips next to him. 

"Here." Ian hands him a glass of champagne. "Being beautiful doesn't come easily, precious." 

"Oh, please," Elijah laughs and quaffs half the glass. "How did the press tour go?"

Ian is casting smiles about the room but his body language is folded towards Elijah and he's important enough to those attending that until invited -- or unless one comes with a title -- he's conversationally off-limits for the time being. 

"They were awed," he brags, "and why wouldn't they be? The building is spectacular and the pieces, the _pieces_ ," Ian emphasizes, his eyes closing rhapsodically, "it is as if the building were built especially for them. They _breathe_ each other." 

Considering how Elijah's spent the previous twenty minutes, Ian's orgiastic take on his newest asset brings the rim of the champagne glass once more to Elijah's lips where he quickly finishes it. "Have you seen Dom?" he asks. 

"He's catting about in the kitchen or some such," Ian replies. He grips Elijah's arm. "Come, there's someone I want you to meet." 

Orlando is fielding queries from a quartet of architectural journalists and engineers when a hand closes on his upper arm. He turns to find Ian. "There you are," he smiles. 

Ian nods to the group, but clearly, he has no notion of lingering. He apologizes for his interruption. "I shan't keep him long." 

Orlando has made a passing glance at the young man standing back a few steps, and has already turned back to Ian before the smile dies on his face. 

"Orlando, let me introduce my dear companion for this evening, Elijah Wood. Orlando oversaw the gallery's design, Elijah." 

When their hands meet, Orlando already finds himself standing outside his body, watching. He considers his performance rather favorable, all things considered. He is saying something pleasant, smiling, pretending they have just met, asking Elijah what his thoughts are on the gallery. And Elijah is being perfectly poised and charming, giving nothing away. From the delighted glances Ian trades between the two of them, Orlando knows he's covering very well. 

But it's a far cry from the surreal shock of seeing Elijah here, in _his_ world, rather than upon the slippery percale sheets of his memory in a candlelit bedroom overlooking a canal. The part of Orlando's brain that refuses to fully fire still thinks that if he were to just lean forward, just caress his face against that spot where a white linen Indian collar meets a pale neck, he might inhale the scent of freesia. 

As it is, the musk of Boss arising from Elijah is intoxicating enough, and for Orlando, it harkens back nearly two years to a hotel bar. 

Their charade is interrupted abruptly by an ebullient young man who has rather forcefully insinuated himself between Ian and Orlando, hand extended. "Dominic," the young man provides, "the better looking of these two, wouldn't you say?" 

Orlando snaps back into the moment, thankful for the intrusion, the change of altitude and focus. 

"Yes, well, this is Dominic," Ian sighs with a smile, "my _other_ companion for these festivities. Behave, now," he says to Dominic. "Orlando is an important associate. Out of bounds, mind your manners, the whole _megillah_." 

Dom and Orlando have only exchanged full names over handshakes when Orlando pats his pocket and retrieves his cell phone. "Damn," he says to the group, faking the need to take a call. "Do you mind?" 

"He's dishy," Dom croons as Orlando, one finger to his ear, walks away. "Don't you think, Elijah? Why haven't you brought him round for tea, Ian?" 

"He's a busy man," Ian says. "And I didn't think it wise to have you nancing around him before the gallery was finished. You can be...a handful." 

Dom notices that Elijah hasn't answered him, that he's rather quiet and thoughtful. "Time out," he says to Ian and throws an arm over Elijah's shoulders. "Come on, mate. Let's go tease the hired help." 

* 

They don't make it to the kitchen, which has ramped up into bedlam anyway. Just outside its doors, Dom leans in. "So what's with the face, kitten? You clearly look like No Fun To Be Found Here." 

"It's nothing," Elijah says lightly, but it's plain to Dom otherwise. 

"Did that fellow say something to piss you off? Was he an arse? Doesn't like the gay thing?" 

Elijah has been avoiding eye contact, but now he looks at Dom. 

"He was fine," he says flatly. " _I'm_ fine." 

Dom looks back towards the gallery floor, then back to Elijah. "You are so fucking far from 'fine' I may have to bathe you in champagne to wash the scent of piss off you. I'll bet you his phone call is over, if he even had one. Let's go find him." He gives Elijah a tug. 

"Leave it alone, Dom." 

"No, mate. Really, he's too pretty to leave alone. Let's go fuck with him a little, liven up this shindig. Who knows? Maybe we can take him home, yeah? For me? Please?" 

"Fuck off, Dom," Elijah says sourly. 

Dom stares at Elijah, then at the gallery once more. "Oh my god," he suddenly grins, light bulbs going off all over the universe. He squeals at Elijah, "Is he the trophy fuck? The one who bought us four days on the water? Is Orlando 'Ralph'??" 

Elijah's lips press together as his eyes bore into Dom. 

Dom's hands go up in surrender. "Okay, okay. Secrets of the boudoir. It's not like you mooned over him. But you banged me three ways to Sunday after he'd cleared out so you were needing to work something out of your system." His voice and gaiety drop. "Elijah, go find him, see what's up." 

"Maybe," Elijah says to placate Dom, tired of the conversation. "But it's done, it's nothing. It just surprised me, seeing him here, that's all." 

"Right," Dom says, far from buying what's none of his business anyway. "Well, I've got a date pending right through here," he points to the kitchen's swing doors, "who probably could use me right about now though he doesn't know it, so cheers, mate. Enjoy defining the merits of fucking vorticubic futurism or whatever the Christ Ian's got hanging in there." 

Elijah snorts a smile at Dom's butchering of the art world. "You've been studying up, I see." 

Dom paints an imaginary circle around his head as he backs away. "This is not just a pretty face," he says, then disappears into the kitchen. 

* 

Elijah reaches inside his lapel and extracts his cigarette case and lighter. He selects a cigarette, tamps it and lights up, then returns the tools of his habit to his pocket. 

It goes without saying that the evening has taken an unpleasant turn for him and is now wearing thin; he's stepped out onto the pavilion balcony for a smoke. 

He can't figure out why he didn't connect the dots two years ago. It's not like him to miss these types of details.

A footfall sounds behind him. "I didn't think I would ever see you again," its owner says quietly. 

Elijah exhales into the night air but doesn't turn. 

"And now that you have, is it a problem, Orlando?" His tone is not unkind. But practicality and purpose, especially as Ian's guest on this occasion, dictates that he know where this conversation might lead. 

Orlando walks past him a few steps, hands in his trouser pockets, staring out at the reflecting pool. A bat is dipping across the surface, catching its evening meal. 

He understands Elijah's tone. After all, it's been over eighteen months, it was one night, and Elijah's here on, well, business. 

"No," he says quietly. "Only a surprise." 

Elijah nods and draws once more on his cigarette. "I didn't know...about your connection with the gallery." 

Orlando turns to him. "And I didn't know about your connection with Ian." He offers a small smile. Why, he wonders, does he find the need to be so guarded?

"Ah, well," Elijah sighs. "Ian is a special...friend." His gaze turns to Orlando. "You understand." 

Orlando nods. He's been trying to fit pieces all evening. "So, were you in the hotel that day because of my meeting with Ian?" 

"I was, yes." 

"But you chose not to meet him afterwards."

Elijah looks at Orlando, silent for a moment. "Yes, that's right."

_Well_ , Orlando thinks somewhat gratefully, _there is that._

"And Dom," Orlando asks after a beat. "Dom is also a friend?" 

"A colleague, actually," Elijah replies. 

Orlando looks back out across the pool. Elijah is offering him nothing, not a glimpse that what they shared had any more importance than what it was -- a hired night of terrific, intimate sex. There's not a teaser that perhaps they might meet up. And Orlando knows that as much as he has been unable to let the memory of Elijah go, one can never go back to what once was, and that now offering money for Elijah's time would lead to something less settling and would taint any affection he holds for the young man and the memory of what they'd shared. 

He turns to Elijah. "You are keeping well, then?" he asks, saddened. 

He is hating this small talk. He hates being this close to Elijah and not being able to touch him. 

Elijah smiles, and Orlando's eyes are drawn to the enchanting gap. 

The one that he once traced with his tongue. 

He suddenly straightens. "I'm sorry," he bites out. "I can't do this." 

As the sound of Orlando's rapid footsteps recede through the doorway, Elijah takes a final pull on his unfinished cigarette and then flicks it abruptly across the balcony balustrade. 

* 

Orlando surfs the champagne trays after this and manages to avoid both Elijah and making a fool of himself as the evening unspools. Minor royalty aside, next to Ian, he's one of the brightest lights at this affair and much in demand, especially among the British press contingent, most of whom are women but also a few men, both those within the closet and those outside its door. But as the night wears on, he knows the battle with sobriety is being lost, that he needs to extricate himself before he becomes a bit of a mess. 

He's about through his rounds of goodbyes when he sees Ian. "Brilliant night," he smiles, reaching out for an embrace. "You'll be on a front page for at least a day from this." 

Ian's possibly more drunk than Orlando at this juncture. "You can't be leaving," Ian chides, all sparkle and smiles. "I have plans for us." 

"Look at me, Ian. I'm a wreck." 

"And gorgeously so," Ian replies. "Come, let me detach all the tentacles. Come back to my place for a night cap. I've arranged a treat." 

"Ian, Ian, no." He laughs and leans in, kissing him. 

Ian swoops an arm over Orlando's shoulder and turns him. "Look there," he murmurs, lips to Orlando's ear. He's pivoted Orlando towards a different wall, and through the thinning crowd, Orlando sees Elijah and Dominic chatting with a small group. 

"Aren't they a pretty pair?" Ian purrs. "And you can't possibly imagine how pretty they can get." He turns to admire them, rocking slightly against Orlando as he challenges his balance. "Even an old dog like me gets primed anticipating it. What do you say, hmmm? Up for a little night music?" 

It is all Orlando can manage to keep his smile fixed. "As kind an offer as that is, Ian, I'll have to pass." 

"The juxtaposition of pale skin and dark hair with the wheaten locks and tan, it is divine, Orlando. And Elijah bottoms like an angel. Please come," he pouts. 

"They are all yours," Orlando laughs, but he needs to fight to find his breath. 

"Have I offended?" Ian asks, suddenly sober to the notion that maybe he's overstepped his architect's good graces. "Dear boy, tell me if I have." 

"Go," Orlando smiles, taking Ian's hand from his shoulder and kissing it. "Go have your way with them and quit making like you need a fourth." 

Ian looks to admire them once more, then back at Orlando. "It would have been nice if you'd joined us," he winks. "Truly special." His smile changes into something more lustful. 

Orlando shakes his head. "You old queen. They'll keep you busy enough. Now go get laid and leave me to nurse my regrets. And my aching head." 

When Orlando steps into the night air, his taxi can't come fast enough. 

* 

There's a herd of empty mini bottles grazing on the side table by Orlando's arm. He has not bothered to turn on the lights since returning to his suite high atop the Hotel de L'Europe, instead letting the shine of the city illuminate his room through the window sheers. His reflections upon the evening, which in every way but one has been a unbridled success, have become a scramble of good news and bad, but it's the bad that has driven him to the minibar. 

He hasn't bothered to change either, only to shed his tie and shoes. Maybe he'll sleep in his suit, he considers, right here where he's sitting. 

He handles alcohol poorly because it's not his habit to have more than two drinks at a time, especially during business dealings. So tonight has been an undeniable blowout, one that amuses him rather sardonically, since he's always regarded drowning one's sorrows as a lazy way of coping. But right now, he could care less. He's miserable and tired and deeply, deeply disillusioned. 

When the soft rap sounds on his door, he turns towards it, mildly interested, trying to figure out if it was at his door or another in the hallway. But the next time he hears it, he knows it's for him. 

He flicks on the side table lamp, then walks to the spyhole and looks through. 

He rests his head against the door and sighs. He still can't do this. 

When the door opens, not a crack but fully, Elijah at first says nothing. Then, "I needed to see you again." 

"Did Ian send you to retrieve me?" 

Elijah looks puzzled by this reply. "Ian doesn't know I'm here." Their voices are very quiet; the hour is late. "I told him I had to go out for a while. He doesn't ask why." 

"You're a man of many secrets, it seems." 

Orlando's drunk, Elijah can see that. He figures he has reason; he figures he might even know why. 

"Too many for my own good, sometimes." 

Orlando acknowledges that with a nod. Despite all the crazy thoughts he's had since first seeing Elijah this evening, he can't help but think it's not easy for Elijah to do what he does, building walls everywhere, maintaining the façade. 

"I suppose it would be polite to invite you in." 

"Only if you want to, Orlando," Elijah says. "Only if you wish." 

"And you?" 

Elijah looks up at him, eyes large and solemn and totally fixed on Orlando. "I'm here, Orlando," he whispers. "Please." 

And at that moment, the months and months of wanting erase the ridiculous drama of the present day, and Orlando realizes that Elijah has indeed come to him, when really, he hadn't needed to, and how wonderful is that? 

He reaches for Elijah, and Elijah takes one step forward, and for a moment they stop, the air vibrating between them.

Orlando pulls him through the doorway, crashing into his mouth with such force that Elijah's head collides heavily with the wall. "Sorry, sorry," Orlando gasps, stroking Elijah's scalp before going right back on the attack, hands cradling and tugging and stroking. Lips and teeth cut into each other amid the gasps and whimpers. 

Elijah doesn't seem to have even heard or noticed. His fingers are busily taking apart the buttons on Orlando's shirt so that he can get closer, burrow right into his skin. Down at floor level, his feet are still trying to find the carpet. 

Orlando has finally managed to palm the door shut, blindly because there's no way on earth he's going to break off the mouth fucking he's laying on Elijah; his tongue can't get deep enough, cannot penetrate fully enough -- can't fucking _get_ enough -- and he wonders madly if Elijah might unhinge a jaw, so enthusiastic are his welcomes, his breath chunneling into Orlando's cheek. 

"Wait," Elijah finally pants, pulling away. "Wait." He's been fumbling like a schoolboy, hardly his normally practiced tack, and he laughs giddily as he tips his head back against the wall, gazing up at Orlando's spit-slicked lips, his fevered eyes, then petting his neck where the pulse points are hammering crazily beneath his fingertips. "Wait," he breathes slowly, dialing it down to a quixotic little smile and grinding his pelvis up into Orlando's crotch.

"Oh, you fucking tart," Orlando laughs and grinds back in counterpoint. 

The heady respite lasts all of three seconds before they tear back at each other. Orlando is so pent up, he can barely contain the energy that is flying off him in sharp jagged sparks. He grabs Elijah's head with both hands and digs in, and Elijah sees lips and tongue coming at him and wonders if Orlando hasn't been laid since the last time they met, and perhaps he hasn't, it's a nice, maddening thought. Elijah opens up like a clam at high tide, eyes narrowed and unfocused and totally incapable of shutting out what's bearing down on him. 

The thoughts ricocheting inside Orlando's head are a mad explosion of longing and desire and hunger and how he's missed and yearned and thought of nothing else but. But they won't get said, he knows that. They can't get said, time's wrong, guy's wrong, maybe. No, probably, regretfully, heartbreakingly. So he pulls back to regain his breath and says instead, "I so want to fuck you up." 

Elijah shivers out a quaking sigh and his mouth darts forward, biting at the tender underskin of Orlando's jaw. "Good," he breathes. "I've waited a long time." 

"I'll bet you say that to every trick," Orlando teases, but his heart trips nonetheless. 

"Only you," Elijah sighs, nipping and meaning it but dissembling so that it can sound like his usual slut talk. God, how he wants Orlando's hands to take him apart. He hasn't felt this level of burn for too long. 

He has begun to figure that if his feet aren't meant to enjoy the flooring, he will have to find better ways to use them. So he slides his arms onto Orlando's shoulders and hitches up, legs encircling and gripping Orlando's hips. 

With the wall at Elijah's back, Orlando angles up under him, his hand finding Elijah's ass and hoisting so that he can press in. Through layers of some of the finest suiting this side of the Italian Alps, he can feel Elijah's hardness growing against his own. 

"Do you still have my tie?" Elijah whispers, slit-eyed and throaty. 

_Shit,_ Orlando thinks, his lust slamming head first into a stop sign. 

"Did you think I wouldn't notice, a fine tie like that?" Elijah teases, working Orlando's shirt open so that he can stroke across peaked nipples. "Did you think I wouldn't remember?" 

"I..." 

"Tell me what you did with it, what you do with it," Elijah breathes. He slips one hand between them, groping through fabric for the tails of Orlando's shirt, sliding his fingers past the loose waistbands of trousers and briefs and belt, and Orlando curls back a little to make room. "Is it like a notch in your bedstead, this business of taking ties? Hmmm? Or was it because it was mine?" His fingers find and free the rigid length of Orlando that's been trapped against his groin, and Orlando grunts as his hips hitch forward. 

"Elijah...." 

"Shhhhh," Elijah soothes, "I know why you did it." His palm slides up and around and across the leaking head of Orlando's cock, and Orlando groans and rests his forehead against the wall next to Elijah's temple. "Do you tie yourself with it when you are alone," Elijah asks, "remembering the night we spent together? Do you pull it tight," -- and his fingers close around the root of Orlando -- "as tight as I had you that night when you cried out to come, do you remember? Do you? Because I remember." 

Orlando turns his face into Elijah's hair and cheek and fucking whimpers. He doesn't know why his embarrassment hasn't caused his penis to turn turtle and shrink back into its shell but it hasn't; if anything, he's about five words and half a wrist flick from coming so hard against Elijah, he may pass out. 

His hand crawls up Elijah's shirt and curls around the nape of his neck. "Don't," is all he can manage. _Don't speak. Don't move. Don't leave me even if I am just another john who's caught your fancy._

Elijah's lips brush Orlando's ear. "But guess what?" he asks. "You weren't the only one keeping souvenirs from that night. You left more than your money, Orlando. You left your smell seeping into my sheets, my favorite sheets, and you know what I did? I stripped my bed and never washed them. I saved them for those nights when I needed to inhale your sweat and cum because that's all I could ever have of you, do you know what I mean? Even whores have fantasies, Orlando." 

Orlando's knees threaten to fold because Elijah is so _good_ at this; he knows exactly where the underbelly of Orlando's libido lies. 

"Christ, stop," Orlando bites out, but he thinks that is an odd verb to use right now because it's the last thing he's capable of doing as the slide and heat and tug of Elijah's practiced hand milks the fire right out of him in rolling pulses. 

In what can't have taken more than two minutes. 

_So much_ , Orlando thinks dismayingly, _for drunks not being able to perform._

Nowhere in the months of imagining what it might be like to once again feel Elijah next to him did Orlando envision a full-throttle school boy orgasm completely clothed in a hotel hallway while he was soused. 

He is beyond being mortified. It feels more like grief. 

Elijah is well-versed, however, in the betrayals of wayward erections and the embarrassment they cause. He gently rubs the back of Orlando's neck as he withdraws his hand and reaches into his lapel pocket for a linen handkerchief, singlehandedly tidying himself before using it to attend to Orlando's plight. Elijah feels the shake start in Orlando's thighs and the pressing heaviness against his body, and he removes his hand and lowers his legs, bracing himself to hold Orlando, who has started to fold. "It's okay," he tells him. 

The floor has risen to meet Orlando's knees, and he sinks to it, not knowing where to look, really, because it's not okay, and he's so weary all of a sudden. Damn every bit of alcohol he's consumed since Ian made Elijah's introduction. He feels one of Elijah's hands cradling his head, then the other threading through his hair, and he can smell himself on it, and what the fuck just happened? Elijah's murmuring things he's not really listening to, probably standard john-soothing premature blow-your-load reassurances. 

But he's aware of Elijah's hardness beneath his cheek, and he clutches at Elijah's hips and turns, mouthing against the fabric. 

Elijah slides sideways. "Slow down, Orlando," he says gently. 

Orlando looks up with darkened, glazed eyes. 

Elijah looks back with an expression that is almost pained. 

"Give me your cock, Elijah. Please don't make me beg." 

Elijah stares at him, then shakes his head once, slowly. As carefully as he can given the profound hard-on trapped in his silk trousers, he descends to the carpet within the circle of Orlando's arms. Orlando will not look at him, so he dips to kiss the bridge of his nose. "Heh," he says. 

Orlando's discomfort is palpable. His eyes dart to Elijah's before falling away miserably. "I'm sorry," he whispers. "You deserved better." 

Elijah is touched by this. 

"I had hoped it might be a little more..." Orlando is lost for how he wants to finish the sentence. 

"Romantic?" Elijah ventures. 

"Yeah." But Orlando's immediately embarrassed that he's divulged his fantasy of saving Elijah from a lucrative but ultimately empty life. "Who knew?" he chokes out, laughing just a little bitterly. 

Elijah smiles and once more kisses him, this time on an eyebrow. "Orlando," he sighs, and he unbuttons his trousers. "I would take two minutes of you wasted in a hotel hallway over not having you at all. Let's save the romance for a little later and just enjoy how hot we make each other. Will you touch me?" His fly whispers as he slowly unzips. 

Orlando lifts his head, and despite the composure of his words, Elijah's eyes are dark, his face flushed. Orlando glances down. Elijah has folded back the fabric around his fly, and the velvety eye of his cock glimpses through the placket of his briefs. Unconsciously, Orlando wets his lips. 

"Please," Elijah breathes. "Orlando, please," he asks more desperately. 

Slowly, Orlando's hand descends, alighting to conceal Elijah's cock, his cupped palm resting atop the sliver of exposed skin. Elijah sucks in a breath and groans, his back arching and his head pressing back against the wall. His knee jerks reflexively. "Oh, fuck," he sighs, eyes closing. 

Orlando tenderly frees him from the nest of cotton, the weight of rigid flesh resting heavily in his hand. He squeezes gently and Elijah turns his face away, breath gusting through his nostrils. Carefully, Orlando fingers the glans of Elijah's penis, and Elijah winces and drops his head, then abruptly reaches to curl a hand around Orlando's nape, to draw him in so that he's able to bury his face against the warm skin below Orlando's ear. 

"Go on," he whispers. "Please." 

Orlando releases him and brings his palm to his mouth, wetting it with his tongue and spitting into it. He takes Elijah back in hand, and begins the pull and slide, letting the moisture of his hand spread. But it is not enough. 

Apparently, however, it's enough for Elijah, who is making small noises that sound like suffering but Orlando knows those sounds, they are anything but, and they go straight to Orlando's cock. Hot breath bathes his neck, and he wraps his free arm around Elijah's waist and pulls him closer, their sprawled and folded legs somehow finding ways to close over each other in this nestled, dim corner of the suite. All Orlando knows at that moment is the sighing, quivering twitch of Elijah's body and how quickly it is being given over to him. 

"I would take your tie and touch it," he whispers against Elijah's shoulder, and Elijah can only nod against his neck, "and imagine it was your skin, so smooth, Elijah, your skin was so fine beneath my fingers." 

Elijah squirms and presses a kiss onto the neck beneath his lips. 

"So soft," Orlando breathes, and his fingers skate lightly over the head of Elijah's cock. "Just like here," he says, caressing the tip, and Elijah shudders. "And here." He lifts his head and kisses Elijah's temple. "And here." He angles into Elijah's parted, breath-heavy lips, sliding his tongue along them. "And I kept it locked away in a drawer because I never imagined I would ever have any more of you than it." He sighs and pulls back. 

Elijah's eyelids are heavy, his cheeks mottled from the heat both within him and without. "I tried to forget you, you know," he breathes, the muscles of his jaw working to overcome the glorious feel of Orlando's hand. 

"Tonight, I thought you had," Orlando smiles rather sadly. 

"No," Elijah says. "Thank God." 

Orlando huffs out a laugh, looks down to consider the drying grip he has on Elijah's cock. He shimmies back a little and ducks down, testing the strain on his back, and it'll be okay he thinks before nuzzling his face into Elijah's groin, wiping the weeping head against his cheek, then his lips, before settling his mouth over it. 

"Oh Christ," Elijah moans, his back straightening against the wall. As far has his suit will allow, he spreads both legs wide. 

Orlando wraps his arms around Elijah's hips and draws him in. 

It doesn't take long. Elijah is pleasantly surprised at how close his orgasm has been simmering. For a few frantic moments, though, he struggles to delay it, curling over Orlando's head and back, running his hands in circles over the length of fine wool, reaching one hand back to cradle the softness of Orlando's hair as it bobs wetly, taking him in deep. There is little room for exposing any more of his genitals than what is sliding between Orlando's lips, but that doesn't prevent Orlando from cupping him through the fabric, his thumb and fingers shaping and smoothing little patterns over his balls. 

When it is right there, right about to break, Elijah sits back against the wall so that he can watch himself being brought off by a beautiful man without having to utter a warning or think about the money he'll collect or how he might spend it or that the guy stinks or is gorgeous but vapid. All that he needs and wants is in this moment, and because he's a whore in mind as well as body, he'll take Orlando on the floor in a rented flat, really, now is not the time to quibble. He grunts as his hips spasm, and in great waves, he comes into the cauldron of Orlando's mouth, where he becomes lost. 

He's aware of Orlando massaging the inner spread of his clothed thighs, lips delicately mouthing the ebbing pulses in his cock. He looks down, utterly spent, and strokes Orlando's hair until Orlando tips his chin up and gazes at him silently, then straightens. 

Elijah suddenly grabs him and pulls him in, mouth open and searching, sampling, tasting. Orlando's hands come up to frame his face, and the kiss softens into something else. When it stops, they tip forehead to forehead, silently, breathing each other in. 

"We're fucked, aren't we," Orlando whispers. 

"Maybe," Elijah sighs. Every part of him wants to say, _Or maybe not_. Only, he knows he can't. Not now, anyway. _Not yet._

Orlando pulls back, taking in the beautifully rumpled suit, its erotically replete wearer, so groomed and lovely, with his exhausted cock resting against the dark silk of his trousers. "You are a sight," he muses, taking Elijah and tucking him gently back into his briefs, snugging the zipper back up along its track. 

Elijah twitches at the intensity of the touch and gusts a laugh. "We are a pair," he says. 

Orlando stops, and looks up at him, then leans forward for a chaste kiss that slowly meets him halfway. "We are," he murmurs. 

* 

"I can't stay, Orlando. Ian's expecting me." They are standing now. They have not moved from the hallway -- Elijah won't chance to step any further into Orlando's world, not tonight. 

"I know," Orlando acknowledges, thinking, _If you go down this road, be prepared for more nights and more Ians, and Raouls, and Sadiqs and whoever the fuck else pays Elijah's rent._

"But maybe we could try again sometime for 'romantic'? Maybe not wait for another building to go up? Perhaps," Elijah offers, "soon?" 

Orlando looks into his eyes, at the controlled, beguiling blue, and he sees something he hasn't seen before. 

Yearning. 

"Soon would be nice," Orlando says. 

"Will you let me be the one to call?" 

"Yes," Orlando says, and he starts to reach into his pocket. 

Elijah covers his hand to stop him. "Can I find you through Ian?" 

"Yes, but..." 

Elijah reads the next thought. "Ian will be okay. Besides, I introduced him to Dom. That's way more than he can manage, although we don't let him know that." 

"A regular tag team, you two." 

"Sometimes. Not always." 

They are both silent for a moment. When they come together to kiss, it is as mutual and natural as if they had known each other many years. 

"I will call." 

_And I will wait_ , Orlando decides.


End file.
